


Homesick

by starstruck_xavier



Series: Xavier's Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Crying, Extended Metaphors, Happy Ending, Logan Needs A Hug, Logan is lonely, Loneliness, Multi, Sad Logan, but its a lil ambiguous, extended metaphors about plants n stuff, patton n roman n virgil are not named but theyre there!!, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck_xavier/pseuds/starstruck_xavier
Summary: Why does the conditioner bottle always run out before the shampoo bottle?Logan huffs a sigh and continues to shake the bottle in his hand, silently interrogating it, trying to get as much out of it as possible, but all that’s left is already in his other hand, outstretched, easily containing the hair product that fits snug in there despite the tremors that always torture his muscles like a soft breeze that constantly annoys you rather than caressing you gently, rushing through your tree branch arms and blowing your hair into your face. Your unconditioned hair.In which Logan is a (figurative) tree trying to survive in the (figurative) desert.(bthb on my tumblr! starstruck-xavier)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil/Creativity | Roman/Logic | Logan/Morality | Patton
Series: Xavier's Bad Things Happen Bingo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837843
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Homesick

**Author's Note:**

> last night i ran out of conditioner before shampoo, so i wrote this hjfhgfgjfgd
> 
> gcse results came out today!! if anyone's reading this today and got gcse results i hope you did gooooood <33

Why does the conditioner bottle always run out before the shampoo bottle?

Logan huffs a sigh and continues to shake the bottle in his hand, silently interrogating it, trying to get as much out of it as possible, but all that’s left is already in his other hand, outstretched, easily containing the hair product that fits snug in there despite the tremors that always torture his muscles like a soft breeze that constantly annoys you rather than caressing you gently, rushing through your tree branch arms and blowing your hair into your face. Your unconditioned hair.

He mentally curses the manufacturers for not making the bottles at least translucent. If he could see the levels where the physical limits of the product sit inside their containers, maybe he could work towards having them run out at the same time. Alas, now he has to use just the shampoo for a few days, his hair coarse and rough until he has an excuse to buy both bottles again. A distant friend’s sardonic voice in his head suggests just using the rest of the three-quarters-empty shampoo bottle in one go; Logan exhales through his nose, barely a laugh on the outside as he works the pitiful lump of conditioner through his roots.

Ever since he moved away for work, Logan has felt like his tree roots haven’t been the same. Parts of him were cut away in the uprooting process, left behind, useless, lifeless. The grass that always surrounded him and kept him company is back there, spreading itself back over the mound of dirt that’s left to replace him. If he stays here long enough, his roots will readjust again in the desert sand and he’ll be stuck here forever. The tremors increase at that thought, an awful jerk of the arms, the breeze teetering on a gale that threatens to pull the dying leaves from his head, losing even more of himself.

It takes a little too long to realise that the feeling of leaves being torn away is merely him subconsciously pulling at his own hair, his fingers digging into his skull with hopes that he could crack it open and switch off his brain. Another sigh escapes him as he brings his hands down to hug himself loosely, and he hears a shrill but soft voice catching on the drum of water hitting his back, telling him that sighing gives you wrinkles.

Logan wishes he could hear that voice for real, in person, muffled into his shirt or whispered against his lips or exclaimed excitedly from a different room, just any proof that they can both be physically together again. He doesn’t want to think about the muffled sobbing, the whispered goodbyes or the excited helloes that crinkle in his computer speakers from millions of lightyears away, just reminding him of how far away they are. His other friends’ words and shouts and gasps and cries and heartbeats all too sound distant from all the way up there, in his brain, distorted and faked up by the mirage of memory, but this one specific person just might spur him to quit all of this, move back there.

And God, does he want to.

If only life was that simple. If only Logan could call his boss, say he doesn’t want to do this anymore and live out the rest of his days with the ones he loves most, but life doesn’t always work out. The inspirational, empty, cursive-written words in frames that litter every local furniture shop he wanders through say to live every day like it’s your last, that home is where the heart is, to make your life the best experience ever, but how? These signs don’t come with an instruction manual on how to go about these things, only how to hang it on a wall so you can look at it every now and again and smile at the aesthetics, the way the letters curve around each other and how the display compliments the kitchen cabinets, the meaning not even discernible because the cursive is so hard to understand. As Logan tilts his head back into the shower stream to bid farewell to that last pump of conditioner, he faintly pictures the face of a friend who would jump at the chance to buy another one of those signs.

The sardonic voice comes back with a witty quip. Logan smiles to himself.

His branches creak in the wind that continues to shake him around as he steps out of the shower and grabs an old towel, not caring which one, just hoping that he can scrub with it at his skin hard enough to peel the scratchy bark away and reduce himself to what he really is. Human, small, mortal, confined to the constant ticking of time much like any other creature, but with a much shorter lifespan than something as amazing and significant as a tree. His arms jerk again and that sardonic voice grows soft and endearingly grumbly, telling him to breathe in. The leaves on his head susurrate and crinkle with the towel absorbing the extra rainfall from them.

The hair feels coarse and rough already, deprived of the usual amount of conditioner that he would use if the manufacturers had made the bottles translucent and made his life a little more bearable.

Usually, Logan would make calls from the cellphone, but this time it seems to be calling out to him, temping him to walk over to the table where it sits and make the call, say “I quit” and be happy. Why is that never easy? He fleetingly considers taking note of that question to ask his therapist, but then remembers where he is.

Half the world away.

Suddenly, he just feels so _homesick_. A crushing, awful, guttural loneliness sinks into his bones and grinds down every single one of them into a fine powder, scattered across the grey carpet like ashes in the wind that whips around him relentlessly and has him shaking so hard that he’s sure he’ll pass out like this. Tears suddenly drip onto the table, sugary sweet sucrose escaping from the phloem in his roots, mixing with the water from his xylem, those hollow, empty tubes made of nothing but dead cells powered by living ones. Dead cells inside him, having exhausted themselves, all for him to mope about and feel this dreadful melancholy creak and snap inside him like a discarded twig, making him tremble even more, reduced to a sobbing mess, his body on the floor but his mind back home.

Home is where the heart is, a theatrical voice floats in the wind akin to sycamore seeds, twirling about like ballerinas. Perhaps that’s why he’s been feeling so empty and depressed lately; he left his heart behind when he left. It’s still at home, galaxies away yet only on the other side of the tiny, pathetic little earth at the same time.

A familiar ringtone shakes Logan out of his head, leaves rustling as he picks himself up off the floor to look at the phone screen. He answers the video call, not bothering to wipe the sucrose tears from his face, adorned with tiny little world-weary wrinkles from a lifetime of sighing, and his three favourite people in the world are looking back at him. They all remind Logan of individual flowers, their soft, youthful, conditioned flower petals sprouting into different styles atop their crowns whilst his own leaves hang limply with moisture, wet from the shower yet still dehydrated of proper care and gentle hands running through it while he quietly dozes in their arms. If only he could do that now.

The one on the right is like a rose; a bold red, passion for romance, loud, boisterous acts of affection that Logan could never fail to shy away from. Even the rose thorns are only reserved for the people who try to hurt his loved ones, something rarely shown but exceptionally beautiful in its own way. Then, to the left, is a purple zinnia, enduring and long-lasting despite the hardships he’s been through, a calming violet that symbolises his transformation from a reserved brick wall to a soft and loving human. In the middle, however, is the most beautiful blue forget-me-not that Logan could ever lay eyes on. He’s full of memories - a string of fairy lights with blurry, candid polaroids pegged across, captioned with words that Logan could read again and again. The blue in his eyes shines like a polaroid lens through his circular glasses and Logan briefly registers him asking if he’s okay.

Logan tells them everything. He misses them, his roots have been left behind and now he’s stuck in this desert, dehydrated and sunburned. If he were a cactus rather than a tree, brittle and spiky on the outside so no one can get too close, he’d be able to survive all the way out here, but his softened insides are crying out for home, and he just feels so bad and wants hugs from them because he can’t just ask for hugs at his new workplace, that’s unprofessional, and he doesn’t even have any friends here, so, so, lonely, lonely, lonely.

Their voices sound like the monsoon season. They sink into his roots, revive his xylem and provide a little colour to his dying leaves. Suggestions make their way to his ears, the main ones being that if he really isn’t enjoying his work he should come home, that they’ll be here for him, the gate unlocked so he can be welcomed home whenever he’s ready. Somehow, hearing it from them makes the idea feel a little less insane.

So, around an hour later, with a fond smile pulling at his lips as he waves goodbye to them with a promise of return, he hops from one call to another, like sycamore seeds twirling in the wind with a newfound determination to plant himself back at home, where he belongs.

The phone rings once, twice.

Only another hour later, as he sprawls out underneath the plain, white bedsheets, it really sinks in. Within a matter of days, Logan will be catching a plane home, granted his wishes after divulging to his boss just how much his mental health has deteriorated over the months. Upon hearing the news, the gale shaking his branches around ceases again into a simple breeze, still there, still adding kinetic energy to every single atom in his body, but it’s not so bad anymore. His leaves are still shaken and falling out, clattering faintly against the pillows and the mattress underneath him from the stress damage, but that shrill yet soft voice sounds again in his head, telling him that in due time, when he returns to his deep blue, galaxy-adorned bedsheets, the leaves will grow back with new life, a beautiful, healthy green.

While he packs his things, he makes a point to leave the quarter-full shampoo bottle in the bathroom alongside its fully drained friend. When he returns home he’ll go to the local grocery store, greet the manager like he’s always done upon visiting, and pick up two bottles, one labelled shampoo, one labelled conditioner.

Because even if the bottles are opaque, it’ll feel so, so much better to be able to fill his entire hand with product until it nearly spills over in his excitement to be where he belongs again, that part of him doesn’t even care that he may run out of conditioner again before his shampoo.

When he has his soulmates with him, the question of why the conditioner always runs out before the shampoo will be the last thought at the front of his head.


End file.
